


Little Wing

by Las



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Episode Related, Episode Tag, Gen, Genderswap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-10
Updated: 2011-01-10
Packaged: 2017-10-14 15:29:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/150758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Las/pseuds/Las
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Episode tags for 4x01, 4x03, and 4x07 in the AU where Castiel's vessel has always been Claire Novak.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Wing

**i.**

A flutter of wings and a flash of golden hair, and Castiel appears next to him.

"How did it go?" Uriel asks.

"It went well," Castiel replies, but she is fingering the bullet holes in her hoodie, the tear in her shirt over her heart. The rips in her clothing mend themselves, and then Castiel looks up at him from behind blue eyes. "As well as can be expected," she adds.

"Yes, I see you and the righteous man have started off on a good foot," Uriel drawls, poking his finger through another bullet hole in the sleeve.

"He just returned from forty years in hell, Uriel." Castiel touches the bullet hole and it disappears. "He's understandably excitable."

"Far be it from me to question our Father's will, but Dean Winchester seems far from a righteous man."

Castiel smiles, and the sight is so startling to Uriel that he finds himself chuckling. She is as conservative in mirth as she is in movement and speech, but there is something about inhabiting a vessel that loosens her. It humbles her, subjects her to the tyranny of human reflex. "Strange, then,” Castiel says, “that you and him should share a tragic flaw."

Uriel raises his eyebrows. "And what is that?"

"You have no faith."

  
**iii.**

Uriel is waiting in a diner when Castiel returns from 1973, and he is not having a terrible time. He may despise these mudmonkeys, but credit where credit is due: this peach cobbler and vanilla milkshake combo is – dare he say it – divine. Castiel regards the food with detachment as she slides into the seat in front of him, and Uriel offers her a bite of cobbler knowing full well she'd refuse.

“1973 was a pointless exercise,” Uriel says, between sips of milkshake. “This is typical Zachariah. He is more showman than strategist, and not even a very good showman at that.”

“1973 was a success,” Castiel says. “That's all that matters.”

“What did it succeed at?” Uriel scoffs. He waggles his fork at Castiel in a point-making sort of way. “I'm more concerned with Sam Winchester's role in all this.”

They've developed a habit of enthusiastic debate when it comes to Sam Winchester. He has replaced transubstantiation as their favorite topic of belabored argument, and they are ten minutes in before Uriel notices the shift in the air. Castiel is about to launch into another reiteration of the means vs. ends argument when Uriel holds up his hand for silence. Does a quick glance around.

The man behind the counter wraps a sandwich, but his attention is focused on the evening news, which has been dragging up the same story for the past couple of months. The anchorman is saying, “The investigation into Claire Novak's disappearance is at a standstill.” The TV shows a smiling picture of the girl sitting across from Uriel.

The sandwich-wrapper exchanges glances with a waitress, and the both of them look at Uriel and Castiel. The anchorman says, “Claire disappeared from her home in Pontiac, Illinois two months ago,” and it cuts to a shot of Pontiac's unremarkable downtown area. _A town just like any other_ , it wants to say. _One just like yours_.

“I didn't realize my vessel would inspire such attention,” Castiel murmurs. “There was nothing that suggested she was this beloved. I thought surely the daughter would be less missed than the father.”

“For someone who spends a lot of time watching humanity,” Uriel says, “you know very little about the workings of their news media.”

The TV cuts to a man looking frayed and haggard, dark circles under his eyes. Dark hair, and his eyes the same blue as Castiel's. He has the same shape of nose and curve of jaw. “We just want her to come home,” he says. “We just want our baby girl back.”

“Look what you've done,” Uriel says, amused, but there is no reply from Castiel, who is watching the man on TV and frowning curiously.

More people look over at their booth now, some of them angry and some of them worried, and the waitress is talking very quietly to another waitress, who is trying her best to not to look at them at all.

“I think we should leave,” says Castiel.

“I can take care of this.”

She gives Uriel a look. “No smiting excessively; we talked about this.”

Uriel rolls his eyes. “Please.” He wipes his mouth with a napkin, then stands up. “What do you take me for?”

Shortly thereafter, the memories of everyone in the diner has been adjusted to a more convenient story, and it's like the past fifteen minutes never happened. The short-order cook fries up some sausages. The people in the diner are eating, drinking, generating the buzz of conversation. The waitress is back in thousand-watt smile mode, asking Uriel and Claire if they need anything else.

“Nothing, thank you,” says Castiel.

The waitress says, “Just the check, then?”

Uriel touches her elbow, and gives her a winsome smile. “We won't be paying either.”

The waitress nods. “You got it, hon,” and bustles away.

He spears the last chunk of cobbler with his fork and holds it out to Castiel. “Last chance.”

Castiel glares at him. Uriel waves the fork in front of her face. With an air of being very put-upon, Castiel takes the fork and eats the cobbler.

“Oh,” Castiel says, eyes widening. She chews with deliberate motion. “It's..."

Uriel just smirks.

"That was good,” she admits.

“A shame,” Uriel says, “that humanity is not as pleasing as their cobbler.” He slurps the last of his milkshake. “Come, sister, we should go.”

And in the blink of an eye, the booth is empty again.

  
**vii.**

Uriel is pushing Castiel on the swings.

“The decision's been made,” she says, hair streaming out.

“By a mudmonkey,” he mutters.

Castiel pikes her legs to go higher. “You shouldn't call them that.”

“That's what they are,” Uriel scoffs. “Savages. Just plumbing on two legs.”

And she swings high, swinging high enough for Castiel to tip her head back and make brief eye-contact with Uriel upside down. “You're close to blasphemy,” she says, and falls back. “There's a reason we were sent to save him. He has potential. He may succeed here. Push me higher!”

Uriel does.

“At any rate,” Castiel says, “it's out of our hands.”

Uriel lets a pause drift by, then says quietly, “It doesn't have to be.”

“What would you suggest?”

Uriel grabs the chains of the swing, stilling it, and looks down at the angel in the little girl. She looks back up at him, the crown of her head touching his waist. “That we drag Dean Winchester out of here,” Uriel snaps. “That we blow this insignificant pinprick off the map.”

“You know our true orders,” Castiel says simply. “Are you prepared to disobey?”

For a few seconds, Uriel considers telling her the plan right now. The vision of a new world, so much like the old world, and one that is all theirs, finally, again. _Home._ She would say yes; suddenly Uriel is sure of it. Castiel misses their Father too, and aches for Him as they all must. She knows better than most the imperfections of this world. For thousands of years now, he and Castiel have watched it grow and change and fall so far, and Uriel is sure. She would say yes.

“You make too much of disobedience, sister,” Uriel says instead, giving her another push.

“Brother,” Castiel says. The chain creaks, and her hair trails out behind her as she rises feet-first to the sun. “We are only doing what we've been created to do.”


End file.
